


Spaces

by BlazeOnMars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Croatoan, Even if there are some others involved in the telling, Gen, I am a horrible evil person according to Shanza, Major character death - Freeform, Other assorted characters - Freeform, S2E9, Set In S2E9 - Croatoan, but I'm not, but really, i should be sorry, possible trigger, the whole thing is about Sam and Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeOnMars/pseuds/BlazeOnMars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to S2E9 - "Croatoan." Because I am an evil, evil person.</p>
<p>The spaces caused by an untimely illness and its effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shanza/gifts).



> The Major Character Death tag? Take it seriously. This fic is not exactly for the faint of heart, though nothing is described too graphically, I don't think. Then again, I'm a fan of Game of Thrones, so I probably don't know what I'm talking about.

For a second, an almost instantaneous moment, Dean wanted to laugh. Sam sprawled out on the ground, one long-fingered hand pressed to his collar bone. It felt like just another mishap in their dangerous lives where Dean would swoop in to save the day (and he did, like usual). Their hands reached out, muscle memory ground deep.

Mark’s voice sounded too soft after the gunshots. “She bled on him.” Dean stiffened and Sam’s outstretched hand retracted slowly. “He’s got the virus.”

Panic painted itself suddenly across Sammy’s face, brighter than any crimson, and Dean’s almost-laugh caught in his throat.

Silently, Dean held his left hand out, ignoring Mark’s words. Sammy’s clammy hand gripped Dean’s wrist and, with a grunt, Dean tugged Sam to his feet, guiding him over to the examination table. Sam seemed unable to comprehend the bloody fingers he pulled away from his chest as he sat down, soundless and too-still and just… staring. Dean walked over to the drawers on the side of the room and plucked out a washcloth, tossing it to Sam.

Dr. Lee, in a sudden fit of movement, rushed into the room, gathering some antiseptic wipes and muttering, “We’ll get this taken care of. It’ll be just fine.” She repeated it again. “It’ll be just fine.” Dean thought she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

Sam still hadn’t moved, staring at the blood on his fingertips, cloth dangling limply from his other hand. When Dr. Lee leaned over him to push the edge of his jacket and shirt out of the way of the dripping cut, Sam startled before he realized what was happening. The sting of the wipes didn’t make Sam so much as twitch and Dr. Lee looked at him, concerned, before guiding his hand up to press the washcloth against the gash.

Dean waited until Sammy seemed okay for the moment before dragging Pam’s body out, tucking her into the room with the other virus victim. Walking back into the examination room felt like walking towards a guillotine; there were uncomfortable truths just waiting to be faced and Dean clenched his hands around his gun for only a heartbeat before he very carefully slid it into the waistband of his jeans. But without the gun, Dean began to pace, erratically walking towards Dr. Lee before turning towards Sam and back again.

The words tumbled out of him, climbing his throat. “Doc, check his would again, would you?”

She had pressed herself into the corner of the room, away from Sam, and out of Dean’s way, but the words washed over her.

“Doctor!” Dean’s voice was like a whip crack and Dr. Lee jerked, coming back to herself, lurching as if she was about to jump forward.

From behind him, Mark’s voice blundered into the room. “What’s she need to examine him for?” He threw one hand toward Sam, as if that was all the evidence Dean needed. Sam, who looked almost fragile in the sterile white light of the room, scrutinized by Dr. Lee and Mark and Duane. Dean sucked in a hard breath. “You saw what happened.” And that was something Dean couldn’t deny: he had seen what happened.

That didn’t mean he had to believe it.

“Did her blood actually enter your wound?” Dr. Lee’s attempt at calming the tension in the room did nothing, especially when Sam only swallowed, heavy enough to be seen, and readjusted his white-knuckle grip on the slowly staining washcloth.

“Come on, of course it did!”

On any other day of the week—in fact, any other hour of that _day_ —Dean would have been thrilled to work with someone as open as Mark. Dean’s fists tightened reflexively and the words came out like punches as he turned towards Mark. “We don’t know that for sure.”

From behind Mark’s shoulder, Duane grumbled, “We can’t take a chance.”

Mark met Dean’s eyes. “You know what we have to do.”

Dean fought to keep his hands steady. “Nobody is shooting my brother.”

“He isn’t going to be your brother much longer,” Duane offered lowly, as if that made anything better. And then, as if Dean had forgotten (but, oh, how we wished he could take back those words), Duane yelled, “You said it yourself!”

It was all happening too fast and Dean just needed two minutes, _two_ , to talk to Sammy and see what could be done and find a way to get them both out. “Nobody is shooting anyone,” he bit out. From behind him, Sammy’s quiet, shallow breaths stuttered.

Mark’s eyes focused exclusively on Sam when Duane screamed, “You were going to shoot me!”

Dean pointed a finger in Duane’s face and roared, panicked, “You don’t shut your pie-hole, I still might!”

Sammy muttered, “Dean, they’re right.” And Dean tried not to let the disbelief show too strongly on his face, even as Sam’s shoulders buckled under the weight of his words, words that he spit out like the faster he could say them, the faster this could all be over. “I’m infected; just give me the gun and I’ll do it myself.”

“Forget it.” The words were stone.

“Dean, I’m not going to become one of those things.” Sammy looked so desperate and yet so resolved.

And the internalized honor that Dean fought so hard to deny was whispering in his ear that every problem would be solved, if only Dean would give Sam the gun. Sammy could commit suicide; Dean wouldn’t be forced to kill his only brother; Duane, Mark, and Dr. Lee could get out alive; and the virus wouldn’t spread. “Sam, we’ve still got time,” begged Dean, hands thrown wide as if he could pluck time from thin air when he knew he was blowing smoke.

Mark called his bluff. “Time for what?” He gentled for only a moment. Dean tried not to hate him and tried not to kill him with a glare. “Look, I understand he’s your brother, and I’m sorry, I am.” Mark’s words were as hard as the gun he pulled on Sammy. “But I gotta take care of this.” Sam finally sat back, then, looking up at Mark.

With his heart trying to stop in his chest, Dean whispered, “I am going to say this one time: you make a move on him, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground. Do you understand me?” Mark’s jaw clenched and, abruptly, Dean bellowed, “I mean, do I make myself clear?!”

Now Mark was the one hollering, frustrated and scared. “Then what are we supposed to do?!”

Dean put every ounce of brainpower into figuring out a solution but only one thing worked out. Sammy would probably have something to say against it and he’d probably have time to air those complaints but Dean… Dean had to get as many people out as he could, when he could, but not if that meant trading strangers for Sammy. And after a long moment, looking at Sam, looking at the only person he trusted to watch his back, just looking, he fished out the Impala’s keys and tossed them to Mark.

Every word was weighted and quiet. “Get the hell out of here, that's what. Take my car. You've got the explosives, there's an arsenal in there.” Mark didn’t seem to know what to do and that almost-laugh from what felt like so long ago was back. “You two go with him. You've got enough firepower to handle anything now.” And with his piece said, Dean turned back towards Sam, despite Sam’s betrayed face, waiting for the others to leave.

“What about you?”

Dean’s jaw clenched and he looked back at Mark without saying anything before Mark pulled back.

“Dean, no. No.” Sam actually leaned forward and Dean, decision made and feeling lighter for that fact, tried not to laugh when he considered that Sam _leaning forward_ was improvement. “Go with them. This is your only chance!”

“You’re not gonna get rid of me that easy,” choked out Dean, one corner of his mouth pulled up.

“No, he’s right. Come with us,” Mark tried. There was an almost awkward pause while Dean just gave him that same long stare from before. Awkwardly, Mark turned to look at Sam and Sam’s eyes flicked furiously from Dean to Mark and back again until the realization settled over the two of them. “Okay, it’s your funeral.” He turned away, Duane and Dr. Lee following in his wake as he walked out.

At the door, Dr. Lee turned, paused, and said, “I’m sorry.” She looked over at Sam and continued, “Thanks for everything, Marshals.” Sam, with tears starting to glint in his eyes, grimaced and nodded jerkily.

Dean jauntily returned, “Ah, we’re not actually marshals.” He eye-brow/shoulder shrugged at the confused look on her face and the quiet, ‘oh,’ she let out as she left. Once she was gone, though, Dean fully appreciated the situation as the door swung shut on well-oiled hinges. There was only a moment of hesitation before the lock turned with a scrape of tumblers.

Sammy was staring as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. In an effort to break the tense stillness, Dean joked, “Wish we had a deck of cards or a foosball table or something.” And then, he did laugh, coarse-sounding and out of place.

It was like Sam got stuck on a loop. “Dean,” he whispered. The loop always started with his name. Dean wasn’t sure why but, if he had to guess, Sam was saying his name for the same reason Dean wasn’t saying Sammy’s: they were each holding onto a lifeline. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “Just get the hell out of here.” The rest of the loop was always Sammy begging Dean to leave. Not that he could. Not that he ever could.

“No way.” Dean couldn’t look Sammy in the eye as he replied.

Sammy sucked in a breath and tried to sound forceful but the rapidly blinking eyes gave away just how scared he was. “Just give me my gun and leave.”

There went the loop and now everything was far too real. Dean’s voice was rough. “For the last time, Sam. No.” He turned and started walking slowly over to the countertop.

The sound of Sam’s fist slamming against the examination table made him turn around, made him take in Sammy’s pained face as he quietly accused, “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

Dean considered it for a moment, mouth turned down. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Remember that waitress in Tampa?” He shuddered for dramatic effect, trying to get Sammy to lighten up about everything. So they were going to die. They knew it would happen eventually, just not exactly like this.

“Dean, I’m sick.” Dean tried to breathe and failed. “It’s over for me. It doesn’t have to be for you.”

“No?”

“No, you can keep going.”

“Who says I want to?”

And Sammy’s tiny, _tiny_ , triumphant look died. “What?”

With a heavy sigh and an equally heavy tread, jaw flexing, Dean crossed the room to sit down on the countertop, pulling the gun out of the back of his jeans to cradle it in one hand, its partner sitting next to him. “I’m tired, Sam. I’m tired of this job, this life… this weight on my shoulders, man. I’m tired of it.” He only wanted to kick himself a little bit, for sounding like such a girl, but Dean’s life—and Sam’s but he didn’t want to think about that—was over, the clock just hadn’t hit zero yet. If these were his last moments, Dean may as well be honest with them.

“So what, you’re just going to give up? You’re just going to lay down and die? Look, Dean, I know this stuff with Dad has—“ Sam’s astonished voice gained speed as he talked until Dean cut in.

“You’re wrong.” There was a stretched pause, Sam waiting for Dean to explain. “It’s not about Dad.” He blew out a breath. “I mean, part of it is, sure, but…”

Sam, ever questioning, ever curious Sam. “What is it about?” he asked faintly, voice thick with tears.

Dean hesitated; the moment of truth had arrived but how does someone tell their little brother that their father had made them promise to protect them or kill them? And then a door slammed outside the little white exam room and Dr. Lee’s high heels clacked against the linoleum. Dean snatched up the other gun as he stood and made his way over to the door. Dr. Lee’s rapid knocking got Dean to carefully unlock and open the door, one gun in his left hand, the other under his left arm.

“You’d better come see this,” Dr. Lee panted. Dean turned to look back at Sam, Sam’s tear tracks shimmering. Sam rose carefully onto his feet, an odd look splattered across his face, and walked haltingly over to stand near Dean’s shoulder. Immediately, Dr. Lee turned to dash back out of the building, Dean hot on her heels.

Sam grabbed the gun from under Dean’s left arm and pushed Dean out of the room with a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades. He threw the door closed just as Dean got his feet underneath him to rush back, gun clattering to the floor as his hands shot out. He hit the door with his whole body, Sam’s name wrenched piercingly from his throat, but the door held and Dean bounced off uselessly.

“Sam!” He desperately tried the door handle, jiggling it unnecessarily when the tumblers in the lock held. On the other side of the door, Dean could hear Sammy beginning to gasp, the hitched breathing that always started one of Sammy’s full-blown crying gigs. “Sammy!’

And all at once, time seemed to stop.

In the valley between Sammy’s sobs, Dean heard the click of a safety. Dean’s heart beat frantically in his chest. It felt almost weak, almost like it did after his electricity-induced heart attack.

The too-still silence rushed into the spaces left behind the fading gunshot.

“SAMMY!”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was the result of my terrible brain after watching "Croatoan" with Shanza. I kind of turned to her at the end of the episode and said, "What would happen if I wrote an alternate ending to this episode where Sam killed himself?" She was both horrified and intrigued and thus "Spaces" was born.


End file.
